


Hot Anger

by WriterOfSmut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angry Sex, Gay, Kink, Kinky, M/M, Male/Male, No Plot/Plotless, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sex, Smut, Temper, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterOfSmut/pseuds/WriterOfSmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been tense over the past while at 221 B Baker Street, and some relief s overdue...  Sexy shenanigans ensue.</p><p>Really, there isn't a whole lot of plot; it's literary porn for the sake of literary porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Anger

Tension had reigned in 221 B Baker Street for days, and it had become unbearable.

At first, it had been the odd snarky comment, a glare, or some minor thing.

But, it had only escalated to the point where a full-blown argument was inevitable unless something promptly changed.

 

As a result of the friction at home, John had taken on extra clinic hours rather than endure the stressful atmosphere that was bringing out the worst in him.

Likewise, Sherlock had begun taking even barely interesting cases in order to busy himself, or spending time in the morgue running experiments.

"Is... Is everything all right, Sherlock?" Molly asked gently as Sherlock violently stabbed a sturdy needle into the lower left portion of the exposed chest of a female cadaver to determine the angle and force necessary for the sharp metal to snap off and lodge itself into the aorta.

Sherlock discarded the plastic tube to which the needle had been attached, and cleared his throat.

"Dandy." He lied, not fooling Molly for so much as a nanosecond.

Molly crossed her arms and raised her brows, leaning against the wall. "Right, and, I'm engaged to Micheal Fielding." She replied sarcastically, making Sherlock frown as he endeavored to place the moniker.

"I suppose that's meant to be a name I would recognise." He stated, causing Molly to sigh. "Oh, no, wait... Fielding, Fielding... Ah, yes, that diminutive fellow with the speech impediment and dreadful wig."

Molly blushed, though she had to admit that Sherlock was right.

Still, the way that he'd said it seemed rude somehow. 

Molly liked that the actor wasn't some tall, hulking fellow. And, she thought that his way of speaking was kind of cute. That Naboo wig on the other hand... 

She'd been invited over for dinner on Baker Street at the flat one fine evening, and had brought over her DVD set of 'The Mighty Boosh' to watch an episode or two with John and Sherlock.

John had quite enjoyed it, while Sherlock had seemed to be unsure of the programme.

"That would be him." Molly answered, clearing her throat.

Sherlock shook his head, not seeing the attraction.

But, then again, he was incredibly picky.

"Anyway, if there's anything bother-" Molly began, before she was cut off.

"What, pray tell, is so attractive about him?" Sherlock inquired curiously, slicing into the cadaver in order to view the results of his experiment.

"I, er, well... It doesn't matter, all right!" She replied, feeling embarrassed.

She wasn't about to admit why she fancied the pants off of Micheal Fielding to Sherlock bloody Holmes.

He would mercilessly pick her reasons apart and make her feel ridiculous.

Sherlock stifled a grin, letting Molly cool down a moment. 

"John and I have become irritable toward one another, and it's become quite the bother." Sherlock admitted, allowing Molly in on the situation.

"Oh." Molly intoned, thinking that the situation must have been quite serious. "I'm sorry to hear that. It was bound to happen sooner or later... Living with someone else always hits a snag or two once in a while."

Sherlock pulled out his folding magnifying glass, getting a close-up of the needle's position; indeed, it had broken off in the aorta as Sherlock had surmised that it would, however the angle it had become lodged with had come as somewhat of a surprise as it was two and an eighth degrees off of his estimate.

"Naturally." Sherlock replied, engaged in his work far more deeply than the conversation.

 

Meanwhile, John was doing his best to keep a straight face as the x-rays exposed the problem that a certain Mr. Ellingsworth was suffering.

He cleared his throat, turning to his patient with as sombre an expression as he could drum up. "The hospital would have been the best place to go, Mr. Ellingsworth." He began, sitting down and folding his hands in his lap. "How long did you say you've had this problem?"

Mr. Ellingsworth licked his bottom lip nervously, feeling terribly humiliated. "Two days." He answered dully, eyes staring at the black and grey tiled floor.

"Yes, right." John said, nodding. "Well, next time, and hopefully there won't be a next time, please do go straight to the hospital. You are quite fortunate that in those two days that nothing worse happened."

Ellingsworth made a grunt of agreeance.

"I realise how difficult this is for you, but there are certain things that oughtn't be inserted into the rectum, and that would seem to include stacks of shot glasses." John managed, trying to be neutral in his manner.

After all, this man deserved to be treated with as much respect and dignity as any other patient.

"Now, I'm afraid that surgery is the only option for removing the objects; one of the middle shot glasses has begun to crack and should it shatter the results could be disastrous." John explained. "I'm going to need you to stay as you are. Any movement could cause breakage. I shall have to ring for an ambulance, and the paramedics will take you to the hospital."

Ellingsworth's eyes went quite round as he began to panic.

"You'll be fine, the most important thing is to relax and stay still." John told him in a gentle tone, realising that he would need to have his nurse administer a muscle relaxant before his sphinctor crushed the glass and there was an emergency.

He called for Angela, who gave his patient a shot which had a swift effect, and then went out to the front to see who his next patient would be.

"You're done for the day, Dr. Watson... We're closed." Joseph, one of the front clerks told him.

John checked the clock on the wall, then his watch.

Sure enough, it was five-thirty and nearly everyone else had already gone for the day.

"I don't suppose you'd like to go for a drink or something." John asked, not wanting to go home just yet.

Joseph gave him a slightly funny look. "Um, no, sir." He anwered politely. "I've got to head home and help my wife with the baby and all that."

"Oh, right, of course." John replied, bidding the other chap goodbye and leaving the office.

 

Sherlock had come back to an empty flat, glad for the solitude.

Not that he would want John to move out.

It was simply... Well, he wasn't entirely certain, but something had changed between them and the effect was apparently contaminating their formerly solid relationship.

He wasn't comfortable with such a thing hanging over his head, and was less comfortable with the fact that he had no idea what was wrong or how to put things right.

Was it his fault? John's? Was the blame on both of their shoulders?

Sherlock didn't know.

Suddenly feeling tired, Sherlock retired to bed early.

 

Needing a longer reprieve, John had rung Greg Lestrade, who had fortunately been off shift and had agreed to a drink and snooker.

As he vented, Greg had dutifully listened.

He hadn't always been a good listener, but his years of police work had honed those skills impressively and had come in quite useful that evening.

John had a lot of venting to do after holding it all in for so long.

"That man can be such a fat-headed arse!" John sighed, taking a swig of beer as Greg took his shot.

"Agreed, but it seems more like you're trying to be angry with him than anything else." Greg replied carefully. "I mean, you're digging for these little details and then picking at them, building them up until they seem like real issues when they're not."

John frowned at him, though with a bit of thought he realised that Greg was right. 

"See, I think that you two should have a good talk, get it all out in the open." Greg went on, knowing from experience that this was often the best solution. "Trust me, it's a pain in the arse, but it's worth it. If I hadn't been too proud in the past and really talked it out, I'd probably still be married to at least three of my ex-wives."

Greg paused a moment, not sure if that had come out right.

He'd become drunk, while John was still fairly sober.

Drinking wasn't a regular activity, but he didn't get invited out often and got drunk even less frequently.

So, that night he'd decided to indulge.

"Anyway, go home and let it all out. Just remember to listen, too." Greg told him, going over and shoving him toward the door. "You two need each other, don't let the stupid stuff build up and ruin what you've got."

John raised his brows.

Greg was speaking as if he and Sherlock were more than only mates. "Right." He replied, letting himself be ushered toward the door.

"Don't give me that tone, believe me, it'll do you both good." He gave John a final push. "Go on, John."

 

221 B was dark when John had gotten in.

He flicked the lights on, took off his shoes, and went to the kitchen to take a piece of the chocolate cake he'd baked that morning.

As he cut himself a piece, he heard Sherlock stir from his bedroom.

"Want some cake?" John called out, though no answer came.

He grumbled at being ignored, and sat down heavily at the table to find a bowl of something bloody.

"For the love of kittens!" John cried, getting to his feet and feeling that special frustration that only Sherlock could rouse.

He took his cake, sat in the living room, and shoved the dessert into his mouth in an aggressive fashion.

Why couldn't Sherlock be just a tad more thoughtful?

"Could you possibly refrain from dragging the fork along the plate in that fashion?" John could hear Sherlock yawn.

John snorted. "Could you find your way to not leaving bowls of yuck around the place?" He asked in return, scraping the plate purposefully.

After a few times of John making that dreadful sound, Sherlock came out and stole the utensil, opened the window, and tossed it away.

"You miserable son of a..." John began, letting himself trail off.

"Go on, say it, then." Sherlock encouraged him, his multi-coloured eyes boring into John's brilliantly brown ones. "You've been wanting to for days, I know you have. Thinking it often enough that I am halfway to being actually offended."

John blinked, anger rising up. "It's the thought that counts." He retorted quietly, setting the cake aside and rising to his feet, forgetting all that Greg had advised. 

Sherlock stepped closer, and the electricity in the room practically crackled.

"Still, wouldn't you enjoy flinging such weak-minded insults at me verbally?" Sherlock prodded, daring John to rip into him.

John shook his head, not believing his ears.

"No?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms. "Well, that's about what I'd expect from you. What is it about me that intimidates you so, dear John?"

"Fuck you." John spat, unable to hold it in any longer. "Fuck you, you petulant, egotistical, spoilt arse."

Sherlock smirked, and leaned in.

John found himself staying put and lifting his chin as Sherlock bent down and pressed their lips together.

"Wh- What are you doing?" John barely managed, Sherlock kissing the words away.

John's legs nearly buckled. It was sapping his strength to stay upright.

How had the situation turned into this?

Sherlock broke the kiss. "I thought I'd take your words as an offer." He explained, a large hand finding its way to John's arse and squeezing it. "Of course, if you don't want to fuck me, we can always end this now."

John swallowed.

He hadn't meant it that way at all.

Still, it wasn't as if he hadn't fantasised about this sort of thing time and time again.

Sherlock waited for a response before making another move.

John licked his bottom lip, feeling a fire spark in his loins. "This doesn't change that you're an utter prick, you know." He stated, making Sherlock laugh in a low, sexy fashion, sending a shiver through John's body.

Sherlock leaned in, grazing his teeth against John's sensitive neck.

He let out a soft moan, his knees giving out.

Sherlock caught and lifted him up, carrying him to John's bed.

 

Laying down next to one another, they spent a long time merely kissing before moving onto some slow, passionate fondling.

It was incredible, the sensation of being so close to one another, being so intimate...

In spite of this being a first, John and Sherlock were fully comfortable with each other.

"Tell me, what were all of those things that you thought and never said to me when you were angry?" Sherlock asked, trailing his fingers up and down John's thigh teasingly, gradually working his way to the formidable bulge between John's legs.

John frowned, wondering why on earth Sherlock would ask such a thing now.

"You know that pair of socks that your mother made for you for Christmas last year, the ones made of handspun cotton that you liked so much and disappeared?" Sherlock asked deviously, making John's spine stiffen noticably. "There was also that dingy grey t-shirt with those ridiculous cartoon characters, among a few other things... They were losses in a mistake when I'd done laundry and used caustic chemicals rather than the liquid detergent."

John had been very attached to that shirt, and to those socks.

Sherlock went on to list other things, enraging John to the point where he'd let out an unspeakable string of vulgarities that even some of the less respectable sorts would become offended by.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, before John cottoned onto what Sherlock was up to.

If Sherlock wanted rough, he'd get rough.

John sat up, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt in a frustrated fashion, undid the trousers next and slipped them down with force.

Sherlock watched in delight, licking his pink lips in anticipation.

John climbed atop him, straddling Sherlock and leaning down to kiss the firm alabaster chest before him.

He popped a pert nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before giving a bit of a nip.

A jolt went through Sherlock, and he bucked his hips.

John felt the pressure of Sherlock's firmness against his arse with the sudden movement.

"You like that, do you, you dirty bastard?" John tried, and Sherlock's eyes sparkled.

"Mmm." He moaned, as John ground his balls against Sherlock's erection.

They were both practically aching after being hard for so long without release.

"I'm going to make you my bitch." John told Sherlock, grinding with such a slowness that he was barely moving.

Sherlock was unable to answer, being so close to the edge that it was unbearable.

John stopped, getting off and kissing Sherlock roughly, 

He slipped down the purple silk boxers to reveal the throbbing cock, precum having dampened the garment that John had tossed onto the floor.

"Look at you." John said breathlessly, taking in the sight of Sherlock so vulnerable.

His face was flushed, sweat gathering on his pale skin.

Laying prone and needy.

The sight was strikingly beautiful, and John hadn't known just how much he had wanted this until it was happening.

He bent down, snaking his tongue from the base of Sherlock's begging appendage to the very tip.

Sherlock let out a throaty groan, rolling his eyes as John took the entire length into his mouth and down his throat.

John then let him pop out of his mouth, and went up for another sweet kiss.

He toyed with Sherlock's nipples teasingly, making him beg for more.

"No." John told him, shoving his hands away as Sherlock reached to please himself. "So impatient...

John guided Sherlock's hands to his trousers, where Sherlock fumbled with the fastener and zip, pulling down the trousers and pants in one fell swoop.

John's cock bobbed up, finally free from the confines of restrictive clothing.

Sherlock gripped John's firmness, making him choke.

John put a hand against the wall to steady himself as Sherlock's shakey hand worked slowly.

"Faster." John commanded, and Sherlock tried to obey.

But, his mind was fogged with the need of release and he wasn't able to fully manage a decent handjob.

John placed his hand over Sherlock's and helped him with the strokes.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock tightened his grip and John came with a shudder all over Sherlock's chest.

Breathing hard, dissolving into the ocean of indescribable pleasure, John felt that moment of near perfection where nothing else existed and all was wonderful.

Sherlock lay there, unable to endure the wait any longer.

John opened his eyes to find the pathetic sight of Sherlock laying there in misery.

John promptly made his way down to Sherlock's cock and began tasting him in earnest, his head bobbing up and down vigorously as the solid appendage slipped into his throat again and again.

It had been quite some time since he'd done this sort of thing, but it came back to him easily enough; when to breathe, when to swallow, and when to use just the barest trace of teeth.

It took very little to coax a raging orgasm out of Sherlock, his body spasming as he came forcefully while letting out a few choice words.

They were both tired and sweaty, but the bed was a damp mess.

"Come on, let's go get clean." John told Sherlock softly, kissing him again. "We can sleep in my bed tonight."

Sherlock gave a sexy half-smirk. "And, what about tomorrow night?" He asked boldly, making John grin.

"Let's get through tonight first, shall we?" John chuckled.


End file.
